


The London Morning Sun

by mardemaravilla



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art, M/M, Paint Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-27
Updated: 2013-09-27
Packaged: 2017-12-27 17:46:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardemaravilla/pseuds/mardemaravilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something about the early morning light that Fernando loves. As it turns out, Juan feels the same way too.</p><p>The sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/969493"> It's Blue (What Else Mata's?)</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The London Morning Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shangrilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shangrilove/gifts).



> Although this is [a sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/969493), it can be read as a stand-alone. I think.
> 
> A gift for [shangrilove](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shangrilove), who nagged me daily until this was finished (and even after that).

Fernando is a morning person. He never used to be, really, but he certainly is now. As a teenager, his mother frequently complained that he would sleep through the second coming of Christ and for a while, he believed her. He habitually slept in until midday, lazing around in bed for hours after waking up before finally getting out of bed in the afternoon to do some painting.

When he moved to London, that changed.

He had heard stories from friends and neighbours who visited England, complaining about how grey and dreary the weather was, but Fernando never put much thought into what they said. When he stepped off the plane at Gatwick and looked up at the grey London skyline for the first time, he understood that it was all true and that being an artist in London presented challenges he had not prepared for.

After much trial and error, Fernando has found that the best light is in the morning. It doesn't matter what time of year it is; whether Spring, Summer, Autumn or Winter, the early morning London light casts everything in a soft glow that Fernando enjoys painting. In the cool hours of sunrise, when the air isn't too muggy and the thin, warm sunbeams pour out over the city like streamers from pink and orange clouds, the light is perfect for capturing colours and moments the way life intended.

It is that same intention of life that finds Fernando now, shirtless and focused, sweeping his brush across a gessoed canvas, blending the colours together smoothly. His subject lies still and unmoving in sleep and Fernando dabs a cool blue-grey colour lightly along certain creases to indicate shadows. He follows the lines of his work carefully before drawing back to compare the painting to its real-life counterpart.

Juan is a flurry of energy. He's always in motion; always training, always playing table tennis, always hurrying to an interview, always off to a photo shoot, always getting ready for a promotional or charity event, always jetting off to some faraway place to play football. Even when he's not on-the-go and the busy footballer makes time for Fernando, the blue-eyed midfielder is still full of life and vigour, telling stories of places he's been, people he's met and things he's done. He's lively and animated and it fills Fernando up with energy and vitality and makes him feel like he could do anything or everything with Juan's buoyant spirit at his side. Fernando has lost count of the pages and canvases he's filled with Juan's smile or gesticulating hands. He's even painted a few pictures of him playing football, although he had to use still images from online, because capturing Juan's clever little flicks and touches in vivo would be nearly impossible. It's probably for that reason, from his innumerable attempts at tamping down the vivacious life-energy that is Juan, that Fernando has been aching to paint a portrait that captures him calm and peaceful.

Fernando adds a peachy orange to his palette and using a fine brush, starts highlighting details.

The only time Fernando has ever seen Juan still is in slumber. It's like the midfielder expends all of his energy and motion during his waking hours, but as soon as he drifts off, his body relaxes and submits to the hold that sleep has over it and he stays lying in one position all night, unmoving. Now, Juan lies the way he fell asleep last night; flat on his stomach with his cheek pressed against the surface of his mattress. One fist is loosely clenched in front of his face and his legs are tangled in the cool cotton sheets. The dawn sunlight spills over his bare shoulder and illuminates his face in a way that Fernando doubts he has the skill to replicate, but he tries anyway.

He's in the middle of adding sunlit flecks to Juan's hair when a soft voice murmurs, "Are you painting me again?"

"Yes," Fernando replies. "But you're supposed to be sleeping, so don't move."

Juan hums compliantly, "Anything you say."

Fernando smiles and continues working, adding depth and dimension to the rumpled sheets for a few minutes until Juan speaks again.

"You don't get tired of painting me?"

Fernando peeps out from behind his easel to find Juan looking at him with drowsy eyes.

"Have you heard of something called a mirror? Do they have those in Asturias?" He teases and Juan wrinkles his face in mock-teasing.

"I know I'm not terrible looking, but still, there's nothing interesting about me. Like you have all these freckles, you know? And it would probably be so hard to paint you with them properly, but imagine that you could, and every freckle was in place and all the colours were perfect. It would be so astounding that you'd want to look at it forever and make sure it was all correct and then marvel and wonder at how it could have possibly been done."

Fernando raises an eyebrow at Juan's sleepy ramblings and he dips his brush into a tiny blob of soft pink.

"You sound like you've given this a lot of thought."

"Maybe," Juan shrugs cheekily.

"Hey, no moving," Fernando reminds him gently. Juan settles back into his previous position, and when Fernando is convinced that his muse is exactly where he was before, he speaks again. "You're beautiful, Juan. I could paint you in a thousand ways and it would still never be enough."

Juan is quiet for a moment and suddenly there's a rustle of fabric and he's getting up from the bed and Fernando is frowning in annoyance.

"Hey! What are you doing? Didn't I just tell you to stay still?"

Juan ignores the scolding and leans in, kissing Fernando deeply and tenderly.

When he draws back his blue eyes are soft and he smiles "How can you say something like that and expect me not to kiss you?"

Fernando blushes lightly and Juan kisses him again before turning to look at the work in progress.

" _Dios_ , this is good. Have you been up long working?"

"I think maybe about an hour and a half. I was nearly finished until you decided to ruin things by waking up," Fernando teases.

Juan presses a kiss to Fernando's hair and he admires the art work some more. 

"The way the light comes in through the window here," he points at the canvas, careful not to bump his finger against the paint. "It's amazing, Fer. It makes the whole room look like it's glowing."

Fernando nods, "It's the early morning sun."

Juan hums in acknowledgement and Fernando wraps an arm around the midfielder's toned tummy and presses a kiss to the bare skin.

"I love you," Fernando says quietly.

Juan strokes the head nuzzling his abdomen, " _Te amo también, mi sol_." Juan smiles down at Fernando and the artist presses more kisses to the warm stomach at his lips. "Do you remember the day we first met?"

"Do I remember?" Fernando raises his head in mock confusion. "I can YouTube it and show you the encounter in HD quality."

Juan laughs and shakes his head in amusement. He picks up the tube of Fernando's cobalt blue acrylic paint and unscrews the cap, squeezing a bit out onto his finger.

"Juan, what are you--Hey!"

He spreads the colour across Fernando's cheek.

"You had paint on your face, just like this, do you remember?"

"Of course I remember. I mean, I didn't at the time when I was swarmed by cameras, but I remember now. And again, there's video evidence, remember?" Fernando pouts and reaches for the cloth he's been dabbing his brushes on so that he can wipe his face.

Juan catches his hand and shakes his head, "Leave it."

"I thought you didn't want me painting over my freckles?" Fernando teases.

Juan smudges the paint over Fernando's cheek even more as he draws him in for another kiss.

"Fine; if I leave it will you get back in bed and let me finish this painting while the light is still good?"

"No," Juan runs his blue finger down Fernando's bare chest, leaving a trail of pigment in its wake. "I have another idea."

Fernando sees the colour of Juan's eyes change. The irises shift from a sky blue to a cool grey and then a clear navy and Fernando marvels at nature and biology and he dreams about capturing those colours on canvas.

Juan doesn't give him a minute to think about the colours he would need to blend, or how exactly he would transpose the dynamic shift into an image. Instead, the footballer firmly plants his hand on Fernando's palette and runs his coloured palm down the curve of Fernando's ribs. Fernando gasps at the cold paint spreading across his skin and Juan leans in for another kiss. He cups Fernando's neck with his dry hand and slides his paint-slicked one over a dark, rigid nipple. Fernando's breath hitches and he moans quietly.

" _¿Te gusta?_ " Juan asks seductively.

Fernando says nothing, but he lets the wet slide of lips and tongue answer for him.

The paint on Juan's fingers is slick and slippery and he thumbs Fernando's other nipple into stiffness, smearing it a dusty purple. Fernando leans into the touch, moving to cup Juan's face in his hands as he tries to intensify the kiss. Fernando forgets, however, that he's still holding on to his paintbrush and suddenly there's a swath of light pink starting next to Juan's ear and continuing down the side of his neck. Fernando drops his brush clumsily onto the carpet and rubs his hand into the palette, holding Juan, touching him with his messy fingers and every touch leaves a mark of where he's been and what he's done to this man's beautiful body.

Juan guides him away from the easel and over to the mattress. Fernando scoots onto the sheets and Juan mouths at the unpainted patches of skin along Fernando's chest and stomach. Fernando makes quick work of shedding their underwear and Juan wraps a hand, sticky with drying paint, around the unveiled length, stroking firm and slow.

Juan leans down, pressing kisses along the side of Fernando's neck. He sucks gently on the lobe of Fernando's ear and the freckled man hums in pleasure and rolls his hips desperately into Juan's strokes. Fernando imagines how glorious it would feel for Juan to coat himself in paint- any colours of his choosing- and press that thick, slicked length deep inside of him. He moans aloud at the image, but he doesn't think painting his insides with actual paint is a good idea. He stretches over to the bedside table drawer and takes out a bottle of lubricant. Juan doesn't need any sort of verbal prompting before tipping some gel into his clean hand and slicking himself.

There's no sound in the whole apartment other than the quiet gasps and sighs that they make. It's intimate and calming and Juan presses his nose into Fernando's hair and he kisses the strands, damp with sweat. Juan drives into him with long, deep strokes and Fernando reaches out to clutch at the sheet, gasping deeply when Juan brushes over his prostate. He tilts his pelvis up more for a better angle and Juan rolls his hips slowly into Fernando's body. The paint, previously dry but now reconstituted by the sweat dripping and gathering between them, aids in the slippery slide of their skin and mounts the pleasure between them.

When they come, it's with a quiet gasp and Juan tumbles onto the sheets beside his lover. Fernando surveys him appreciatively. His dark curls are mottled with peach paint, blue paint smeared cross his cheekbone brings out the colour of his eyes, green splotches blend into browns and oranges across his heaving chest. 

He's beautiful. He's a plethora of tints, tones and textures; even more so than usual. From his wiry hair to his soft skin bathed in acrylic splatter, Juan is a beautiful explosion of colour and Fernando yearns to roll out of bed and get back behind his easel and paint him once more.

Except that he's exhausted and can't move and Juan feels so incredibly comfortable pressed right up next to him.

"We've ruined your sheets," Fernando says.

Juan laughs, "It was only a matter of time."

"A matter of time? Have you been planning this? An early morning roll through the colour spectrum?"

"Yes," Juan grins mischievously.

Fernando matches Juan's smile and drapes a sweaty leg over the footballer's thighs.

"I hope you know that the light's completely changed now. There's no way I can finish that painting."

Juan catches Fernando in a warm kiss, "You can try again tomorrow morning."

"Or the morning after that?"

" _And_ the morning after that."


End file.
